


Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before

by EvilEd



Series: I Keep Mine Hidden [3]
Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: M/M, Makeup, Rick's Got Trauma, Scars, Vyvyan's Being Nice For Once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilEd/pseuds/EvilEd
Summary: I was detained, I was restrainedAnd broke my spleen and broke my kneeAnd then he really laced into meFriday night in out-patientsWho said I lied to her?OrRick has some trouble with his newfound scars, but Vyvyan might just have the solution.
Relationships: Vyvyan Basterd/Rick (Young Ones)
Series: I Keep Mine Hidden [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654867
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Smiths song of the same name - I listened to it a LOT while writing. Sorry for the long hiatus my dudes, and updates are probably gonna keep being slow. I'm a little all over the place rn, hehe.

If Rick _had_ to guess when this whole messy business with Vyvyan had started, he would no doubt have said the night before Mike’s big _“We didn’t die in a horrible bus crash so let’s all have a drink and a dance”_ party. There was a degree of truth to this to be fair, in the sense that it was the first time he hadn’t been completely dense and oblivious to the painfully obvious levels of sexual tension that brewed between them on a near-constant basis. But really, the whole messy business between him and Vyvyan had been going on since well before that seemingly endless stint in intensive care. Possibly even well before their move to the new house. _Really_ , it had most likely started on a long-ago day towards the very end of a warm summer in 1980, when the four boys had first moved in with each other in the first place.

But for the purposes of this narrative, ( _Rick_ ’s narrative, however inaccurate it may be) we shall accept that his version of events began exactly one month after the bus crash, and one day prior to Mike’s aforementioned party. A Thursday night, to be more precise. Or, if we want to be _really very_ precise and pinpoint the _exact_ time and place; at approximately 8:23 on the Thursday night before Mike’s aforementioned party, when Vyvyan accidentally walked in on Rick in the bathroom.

And Rick could have _sworn_ he locked that blimmin’ bathroom door. Cliff knew he always did when he was doing far less private things than this, so why couldn’t he lock it the _one_ time he really needed the privacy? It was sod’s law, really. Or maybe more like fate. In any case, Vyvyan came through the door at 8:23 PM via the swift kick of a doc marten boot, which by some miracle failed to knock the door off its hinges. The punk was _about_ to loudly berate Rick for clogging up the bathroom in the first place, and possibly force him to eat the stupid fucking household charter that so _clearly_ outlined Rick’s insisted upon bathroom time limit, but the sight before him stopped him dead in his tracks. They locked eyes. Rick bit his lip. Vyvyan’s hand hovered somewhere between clapping itself over his mouth in a pathetically girly manner, or reaching for the doorknob to back out of the room.

Rick had his back to the sink, his body contorted at a bizarre angle as he attempted to get a good look at his spine. He was entirely naked apart from his Y fronts, and the angry, raised patches of burned flesh that spanned from the back of his neck down to the backs of his legs, hands, arms, and the very edges of his jawline were more visible than Vyvyan had ever seen them. The poet had what looked like a compact of powdered foundation in one hand, a makeup brush in the other, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery.

“…D-don’t you ever knock?!” Rick half snapped, half screeched. His face was rapidly turning redder than the burn marks on his back, and he looked dangerously close to another bout of frustrated sobs. He’d never been so blimmin’ embarrassed. Honestly, he’d rather be caught wanking.

“I’m…sorry.” Vyv stuttered, “Sorry, Rick. I didn’t…I didn’t know you were -”

“ _What_? In the bathroom? Naked? Covering myself in makeup like a stupid poofy girl? Be specific, Vyvyan!”

“Sorry…” He mumbled again, and for once he really meant it. He grabbed hold of the door and went to step out of the room, but the sight of Rick tearfully resuming his futile acts of contortionism gave him pause. “…Erm…that’s not gonna work. The powder.”

“I told you to get out, Vyvyan!”

“…No you didn’t. You asked me if I ever knock. Which I don’t, incidentally, but -”

“Well I’m telling you now, alright? Piss off! Leave me alone!”

“You need the liquid foundation.” Vyv clarified, “And a concealer. A primer, too. The powder goes on last.”

“I can’t afford any of that!” Rick made a last-ditch effort to obscure his back from Vyv’s wandering eyes, but it was as futile as his haphazard makeup application.

“…Okay…You can owe me.” Vyv said.

“What?”

“Wait here.” Vyvyan stepped out of the room, looking rather relieved to have an excuse to leave (Rick hated him for it, but couldn’t blame him – he would have left his own body if he could have) and the poet took the opportunity to dash across the room and cover himself with a towel. He sat on the edge of the bath and waited for Vyvyan to come back, wiping his eyes whenever he felt more tears coming on.

“Right.” The punk muttered as he stomped back into the bathroom, “Let’s see how this goes.” 

“What is it?”

“Before I went punk, I was goth for a bit. Only _very_ briefly, mind. And if you tell anyone, I’ll bloody kill you. But, I did manage to nick a decent bit of makeup before I changed the look.”

He handed Rick a ratty black case covered in a fine layer of white, grey, and black dust.

“I’ve got a good concealer in there, somewhere. A good foundation, too. You’ll have more luck with it than you will with the shit you’ve got on there at the moment, and it won’t irritate your skin as much.”

“…You’re…you’re letting me borrow it?” Rick asked. Vyv shook his head.

“No, I’m saying you can have it. I don’t bloody need it.”

“…Well…I… I suppose you want to be _reimbursed_ for it or something, hmm?”

“Nope. Take it, s’yours. Just remember you owe me a favour, yeah?”

“ _Eugh._ Wh-what sort of favour?” Rick covered his crotch defensively, and Vyv took a step back in disgust.

“No! Christ, just. Never mind, alright? Just wash that shit off your neck and see what you can do with this, okay? And I mean it, Rick. If you tell anyone - ”

“You’ll kill me.” The poet rolled his eyes, “Yes, yes. I understand. So long as you don’t go telling anyone about what you saw, alright?”

“Trust me, Rick. I’m not going to be telling _anyone_ I saw you in your pants.” Vyv hesitated, frowned, then reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers against a scar at the edge of Rick’s jawline. “They, erm…they really don’t look that bad, you know. I dunno why you’d want to cover them in the first place. S’the only time you’ve ever looked even remotely tough.”

Vyv shook his head, took back his hand and made a hasty retreat before Rick could prolong the conversation (and the uncomfortable view of his Y fronts) any further, leaving the people’s poet with his newly acquired bag of makeup. He ran his hand across the side of his face and frowned. Perhaps Vyv _had_ been right about that cheap makeup from the chemists. It seemed to be making his skin tingle. Must have been a kind of…allergic reaction of some sort.

*

But if the night before Mike’s party had _started_ this whole messy business, then the afternoon leading up to the party well and truly clinched it. Once again Rick found himself in the bathroom, painstakingly applying thick clumps of half-dried foundation to his neck while a queue formed outside the door. He was looking a bit more presentable; fully dressed with his bathrobe over the top to protect his terribly cool new outfit from any possible makeup stains, and felt far more optimistic about this entire situation than he had the other night. It wasn’t _perfect_ , of course, but the scars had certainly faded considerably. You’d have to look pretty closely (and _know_ what you were looking for) to find anything amiss, and thank Cliff for that. Vyvyan might have been proud of his newly acquired scars, but Rick really didn’t see the appeal. They didn’t look tough to him. They looked ugly and painful and only served to remind him of the weeks upon weeks spent in the burn ward following that awful blimmin’ bus crash. It just wasn’t _fair_ that he had somehow sustained the worst injuries. Especially since Vyvyan had somehow landed on top of him when the explosion hit, despite being several feet away from him at the time of the crash. The punk should have been torn to shreds by the shrapnel, really. It was blimmin’ unjust that he only got a few cuts and scrapes.

“Hey, Rick, man. Other people need to use the bathroom too.” Neil whined as he jiggled the door handle.

“Shut up, hippie! Go wee in the garden.” Rick replied. This little argument had been going on for hours now, occasionally interrupted by Mike passionately reciting large passages of the house charter to emphasise his hierarchal power and _prove_ why he required the bathroom far more desperately than anybody else. Cliff, it wasn’t half difficult to concentrate with all that noise going on outside. He hadn’t even shaved yet, and had only just started working on his hair. He might’ve been done by then if it wasn’t for a stubborn scar on the very side of his neck, but he was hardly about to leave it uncovered. After all, this would be the first time all his very cool and hip friends from the anarchist’s society got a good look at him since the crash, and anarchic or not, he wasn’t about to walk out there like _that_. He’d feel far too self-conscious.

“Rick, come on. I’m like, busting out here!”

In the distance, he could hear the tell-tale sounds of Vyvyan’s boots on the stairs, and Rick cringed momentarily while retying his braids, waiting for the punk to kick the blimmin’ door down. No such intrusion occurred. Vyv knocked instead.

“Can I come in, poof? I only wanna have a shave.”

The sudden bout of perfect silence that enveloped the house was almost as unprecedented as Vyvyan’s polite request. Nobody seemed to know quite how to react.

“…Oh…um…yes?” Rick swallowed, “Yes, I suppose.”

“Great.” Rick moved to unlock the door, but Vyv smashed through it before he had the chance. Well, old habits die hard, he supposed. But still, it was odd, really, wasn’t it? Asking permission before entering a room? And that wasn’t even the really weird bit. The weird bit was when Vyv stepped up to the sink to shave, and the way he actually _shifted_ over so that there was room for both of them in front of the mirror. And when Rick had some trouble with tying his left braid (his hands were shaking too much out of pure shock) Vyv put down his razor and tied it off for him, even pausing to take a bit of excess gel from his own hair and add it to the front of Rick’s to give it a bit more volume.

“Stop being girly.” Vyv said, “Fussing over the bloody mirror, hogging the bathroom all the bloody time. You look about as good as you’re going to get.”

“I…”

“Go on, clear off. Unless you wanna watch me have a bath.”

“…I haven’t shaved.”

“Rick, you were supposed to do that _before_ you put the makeup on.”

“I forgot,” Rick mumbled. Vyv rolled his eyes and tilted the poet’s head up with a finger.

“Hold still then. It’ll be a dry shave, but it’s better than nothing I spose.”

“A-alright.” Rick shut his eyes and tried to ignore the way Vyv’s hand felt on his face, or the fact that he was trusting someone he _hated_ with a razorblade this close to his neck. There was something oddly sexual in it (well, there would have been if it wasn’t Vyvyan Basterd, who Rick _definitely_ had absolutely no feelings towards whatsoever except for unbridled hatred and disdain) and the poet hoped Vyv wouldn’t somehow notice the suspicious bulge beginning to form in his trousers. But really, it was over far too quickly – or did it take far too long? Truthfully, Rick had absolutely no idea _how_ he was supposed to be feeling after this bizarre turn of events. Vyv finished by blowing a quick burst of air into Rick’s face to clear away any excess hairs, then clapped the poet on the shoulder and put a bit of distance between them.

“Right. _Now_ you can clear off.” He paused, and the smile that flickered across his face was one Rick hadn’t seen before, “You did alright on the scars, poof. You can barely see them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re back to looking all boring and girly.”

“Oh, haha. Terribly _amusing_ , Vyvyan. It’s so witty I forgot to laugh.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Vyv shrugged, “Now piss off. I wanna get all the cadaver blood out from under my fingernails before it _really_ starts to smell.”

Rick was dumbstruck – wide-eyed and silent. He stepped out of the bathroom without a single complaint or smart-arsed comment; simply disappeared into the hall to sort out the drinks and tidy the drawing-room, operating on a kind of awe-filled autopilot. Vyvyan had _touched_ him. _Helped_ him. It shouldn’t have had an effect on him. Shouldn’t have made his knees buckle or his stomach go over with lust and longing but it _did._ Cliff, it really did. So much so that on his trip back from the kitchen to the drawing-room he was forced to collapse onto the sofa with a wistful sigh, and clutch his stomach until the initial wave of tingly lovesick nausea passed him by. Oh, this wasn’t good.

This wasn’t good at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much guys!


End file.
